my life as a artist
grand
Wednesday 29th August 2007 10:47 PM
Hello there! How ya doin'? Grand!
An overseas reader asks, 'Where have you been Rory?' to which the answer is, cutely, but without being coquettish, 'overseas'. I've been to a bijou arts and literary festival, called Flatlake, nestled in the drumlin breasts of central Ireland.
The festival took place in the 500 acre grounds of a stately home, appliquéd with lakes and studded with exotic mature trees. It was organised by the writer Pat McCabe and the film-maker Kevin Allen (whose google-fame has been subsumed by being related to Lily Allen, and now, rather ignominiously, he is more commonly found under the title 'Uncle Kevin').
There were more artists and poets there than you could shake a chewed pencil at, and it felt unusual not to be unusual. I was there as a guest of Tony Allen (No relation to Kevin, Lily, Keith or even Dave) and had no official duties to perform, although due to the slightly organic nature of the event, I did end up helping to erect a marquee and doing a bit of compering in the stripy red tent.
The other main venue was a bizarrely converted barn, with a parked lorry as a stage, which also served as the headquarters of a pirate radio station, 'Radio Butty', D.J.'d by Pat McCabe, who was a bit like Terry Wogan, but more visceral. There was also a cinema tent, down by the lake, which kept showing a film about Joe Strummer. There was a tortured, but not squealing, hideously skewered whole pig being spit-roasted on the baronial lawn, but because the flaps were tightly drawn on the tent, our enjoyment of the film was neither impaired by the smell of its burning flesh, nor the attendant whiff of ancient privilege.
Sunday lunchtime was spiritual hour. Keith Allen was advertised as doing yoga in the red stripy tent, so in my new-found role as assistant stage manager, I asked him how he wanted the venue laid out. He told me, in a direct and colourful fashion, that it didn't really matter, because contrary to what it said in the programme, he wasn't doing any fucking yoga.
Disappointed, I took my yoga mat back to the tent, and went to the barn to see what spiritual nourishment was on offer there. There was about thirty people sat about on hay bales, and in the middle was Shane MacGowans wife, Victoria, holding a large crystal and channelling angels. Snuggled up to her was Sinead O'Connor, and sat behind them both was Shane, wearing his shades, holding a bottle and pulling on a fag. There was some silent-movie piano music, from an unattended sound system, playing quietly in the background. It's difficult to know if it was an event or an installation.
The Guinness in this part of the world is dangerously sublime, and flies down ones throat on feathered wings of loveliness, and though they say in the advertisements that it's good for you, they never actually specify the dosage, and to be honest I think I overdid it a bit.
On Sunday I night I saw the best gig I've seen for three thousand years. It was a bloke called Jinx Lennon, accompanied by a woman called Paula Flynn. He had a beat-box and a guitar and some mighty words of white light and wisdom, which he was hurling, in a highly original manner, in the general direction of the demon-controlled structures of the planet. He was somewhere between Flann O'Brien, Ian Paisley and Captain Beefheart. The mellifluous, crystal purity of Paula Flynns voice, which elicited a hitherto unseen tenderness in him, served as perfect counterpoint and balm to his fierce fire. Fair fucks to ya Jinx, it was a grand gig!
On Monday I headed back to Yorkshire, flying from Dublin to Manchester with Ryanair, or to give them their full name, 'Ryanair Would Like To Apologise'. On the outward journey, the advertised price turned out to be 4% of the eventual cost of the flight. How cheap is that? One common problem with airports and airplanes is that they're usually completely airless, and compared to a rolling green field full of poets, are rubbish. I've always thought that if God had intended us to fly, he would have given us more leg-room.
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Dis is grand stuff. It is, it is, it is.
(I've never been to Oirland, but I believe dat's how dey speak. So they do).
Magic word: animal (!)
Posted by Steve , on Thursday 30th August 2007, 9:13 PM
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